


A Romantic Autopsy of the Mind

by ArmageddonGeneration



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Judy Hopps, Bogo just wants to do his job, F/M, I took inspiration from Hannibal and Dexter, Judy Hopps must be protected, Judy is in way over her head, Police Procedural, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Serial Killers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-30 02:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmageddonGeneration/pseuds/ArmageddonGeneration
Summary: Judy Hopps is a rookie who can empathise with killers better than anyone else. Inducted by Chief Bogo into the ZBI's Evil Minds unit to help him fight a terrifying wave of serial murders, Bogo worries for Judy;s mental health and recruits world-renowned psychologist Nick Wilde to monitor her condition. But Wilde is hiding dark secrets of his own, and Judy has unresolved history with foxes...





	A Romantic Autopsy of the Mind

Your name is Judy Hopps, and when the real cops arrive you're vomiting in the corner. 

You got to the crime scene first, more-than-punctual, just to show Bogo he's made the right decision (thank you sir, thank you thank you thank you, I won't let you down). 

It's the dead time of night, when the only people out are killing or about to be killed. At home, your parents are snug in bed, night caps on, slippers on the carpet ready for the morning rush. In Zootopia, you walk into a warehouse and study a dead body carved into a thirteen course meal.

You breathe deep, take the sight and the smell and the taste of it into your lungs and hold it there, fighting the way your stomach curdles. You can do this. You can.

_Close your eyes, and -_

Around you the world blurs counterclockwise, like a watch rewinding. You stand frozen in the centre watching the seconds respool, the body on the table stitching itself back together like Frankenstein's plaything. 

_ \- open. _

You don't know your name, your reasons, or what face will look back at you out of a mirror. All you know is the moment. Purpose settles in your chest like an anchor in a stormy sea.

The body waits for you on the table, still warm and wriggling. You work slowly, and relish every moment.

***

The body smells good enough to eat, and Fangmire hates it for that.

She stands looking at the thing on the table in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, and clamps down on her mutinous stomach. Behind her, Wolford, her senior officer, is just finishing up with the patrol boys who are guarding the doors. 

She wishes for a breeze. That at least would dislodge the smell. Or for summer. She'd only had one summer on mammacide, and the bodies had been more like sacks of meat juice, but at least then her hindbrain wouldn't be telling her to pull up a chair and pull out some cutlery. 

Wolford is done with the beat boys. He comes to stand beside her, shivering from the winter chill.

Behind them, she can hear retching. 

"They don't make 'em like they used to," Wolford mutters around his cigarette. Fang grins.

"Hark at you, old timer," she winces as more vomit slaps concrete, "Got a point though. These poor rookies have got no guts."

(she says, fighting hers with all she's got.)

_ You will not growl, you will not growl, you will not ... _

"Well that’s ‘cause she’s heaving hers all over the floor," Wolf jerks his head back to the sound of more vomit hitting concrete, "Shameful, really. In my day -"

"If I have to hear one more story about the days when cops solved crimes with their fists, a magnifying glass and a bent paperclip, _ I'm _gonna hurl."

"Tetchy, tetchy," Wolf's eyes crinkle, and Fangmire can almost ignore the hunk of dead meat on the table. Wolford yawns, expertly keeping his fangs hidden, and regards the body.

(It _ was _a body. Remember that. It was a real, living person once. She could've had a conversation with them on the street -)

"Wadda'ya think of this then?" Wolf asks, "Traditionalist cult? It's all traditional cuisine, right?"

Fang forces herself to look at the thirteen steaks laid out in front of them on fine china plates. Wafer-thin slices of succulent pink meat, tender and crispy around the edges, drizzled in a red wine sauce and a light sprinkling of herb.

Folded in front of the plates is a dainty white card with two words printed on it in elegant cursive.

_ Bon Appetit. _

"I don't think it's cultists," Fang says. She imagines the red sauce is the Other thing. The foul, clotting, sticky thing that used to run through this person's veins. It helps. "What do we know about the victim?"

"Deer, mid-twenties, probably female," (- Well, Fang would never have had a conversation with her, then. No deer would be caught dead fraternising with a tiger) "CSI says they had a bit of weight issue, seeing how much meat is here. Obviously, at this stage ID is impossible."

For a second she imagines trying that, identification. Putting the deer back together on the mortuary slab, slice by slice, like a jigsaw puzzle.

_ And all the King's horses, and all the King's men... _

"Obvious answer is cultists," Wolf sniffs, "They love all this Dark Ages sadist bullshit."

"No, I know traditional recipes. This looks different," Fang blurts, still trying to piece the victim together in her head.

Then she realises what she's said. Practically _ yelled _. Wolford's ears are pinned to his head.

"And you know that... how?" he asks carefully.

_ Backtrack, backtrack... _

"It doesn't matter," she brushes off, but Wolf grabs her arm, tightly, the survivor's gleam in his eye.

"If the door guards heard that, hell yeah it matters."

They both glance back at the doorway, where the prey officers are standing just out of sight. The sound of retching is conspicuously absent. Fang yanks her arm away.

"I just - when I was six, we were clearing out my grandma's loft, and I found this old chest full of books. Cookbooks. Or what was left of them - they were at least four hundred years old, okay? Weren't old enough though, because I could still make out some of the pictures."

_ She remembers having little paws, little enough that she needed both to heave the books open. She'd felt excited. It was like finding hidden treasure, or opening presents at Christmas. _

"Shit," Wolford says softly. Fang's breath is shaky, and she fights to control it.

"Yeah."

"Listen, I wouldn't mention-"

"I know," she snaps, because he might be older than her, but she's been dealing with this stuff her whole life too. "Mom found me about an hour later. The books were all over the floor and I was just - staring."

_ Mom had been smiling. There was a nice new prey family moving in across the street today, They hadn't seemed scared when Mom said hi that morning, and she was hopeful this time she could actually make some friends in the neighbourhood. _

_ Mom poked her head through the attic trapdoor and saw Fang huddled there in the dark, with torn pages and balls of paper all around, like shrapnel from a bomb. She'd plucked up a ball, unfolded it and - _

_ Mom had stopped smiling. _

_ They didn't go near the nice new neighbours for a month, just to be safe. They missed the neighbourhood welcome wagon. Fang never even learnt their names _.

"What happened to them? The books?" Wolf asks.

"We burned them. At the bottom of the garden, the same night. Even threw the ashes in the river."

Silence hangs heavy with the smell of rich, marinated meat.

"So - these are different?" Wolf tries, delicately. Fang's grateful for that, but they have a job to do. Everyone has their own sob-story, and hey, today hers might help catch a killer. Silver linings.

"Yeah, it's, uh, more complicated than anything I've seen. Looks like the stuff you see in gourmet restaurants."

"So maybe we're looking at a copycat. Could be a frame job. Mob hit trying to frame cultists to deflect suspicion."

"It's not," calls a cheery voice from the warehouse door. They both turn, and see a grey rabbit skip towards them. She looks like she's just walked off the pages of a farming magazine; plaid shirt with a faux-leather jacket several sizes too big. All she's missing is the straw hat.

Wolf blinks at her dumbly, and Fang's impressed. It's not often he's caught off-guard.

"Sorry?"

"It's, uh, not a frame job," the rabbit repeats, trying to peer at the body between their legs, like a kindergartner who needs a piggy-back to see.

"Sorry," Wolf says again, "Who are you?"

"The rookie with no guts," the rabbit jabs a sheepish thumb back behind the doors, eyes on the ground.

"And you're contaminating our crime scene because ..."

"I know what happened and you don't. Oh, and, I have one of these," she produces a shiny new ID badge from the depths of her oversized pockets. Fang reads the words

_ Special Agent Judith. L. Hopps _

_ ZBI _

_ Evil Minds Taskforce _

Wolf studies the badge, grunts like it’s no biggie, and turns back to the body.

"So, Sherlock. Why not a frame job?"

The rabbit scampers forward, nose twitching. It's kind of cute. Crime scenes should_ not _ be _ cute _.

"Well, look at it," she says, circling the thing almost admiringly, "Look at how intricate this staging is. No-one goes to all this trouble to frame someone and then hides the evidence in a warehouse no-one uses. The cops'll see it for sure, but no criminals are gonna get the message."

Wolf scratches his ear. It's a coping mechanism. Fang wishes she had one of her own.

“So - it _ is _cultists?"

The rabbit shakes her head, making her ears flap.

"No. If it was cultists they would've eaten the meat. This kind of cooking is almost religious to them, and eating is part of the ceremony. They wouldn't go to all this risk not to taste it. Feel the weight of it inside them -"

"You assume."

"I _feel_," the rabbit clarifies, like that's supposed to make a difference. 

"So if it wasn't cultists, and it wasn't a frame job, what was it? X-rated Masterchef?"

"An exhibition," the rabbit mutters, coming to a stop in front of the table. She frames it with her fingers, like she's directing a scene in a movie.

"Huh?"

"Look at the way the table is positioned, perfectly centred. I bet if you turn those lights on," she waves vaguely at the industrial light switches on the wall, "you'll get some kind of spotlight on it. The warehouse is a private venue. He's _ showing off to _ the cultists."

Wolf raises his eyes to the heavens.

"This isn't detective work, Sweetheart, this is storytelling -" he’s cut off by the lights flickering on. Fang has wandered over to the switches and flicked them on, just in case. All but one of the bulbs has been smashed. The single beam has the table caught, like the Divine Eye of Judgement. 

Wolf wolf-whistles, "Huh. So he's an artist?"

"He's a fan," Hopps corrects, "This is an homage. Except..." she meets Fang's eyes for the first time. Her irises are impossibly blue, like iced-over oceans. Fang shivers under their x-ray stare, "You said the preparation here is different than in the traditional recipes?"

Both predators freeze. _ She heard. _The prey pretends not to notice that she has them at her mercy. Her eyes flit down again, avoiding them like you avoid looking at the sun for fear of being blinded.

Wolford is taut as a wire. Fang thinks every tendon in her body might snap, but the prey demands an answer.

"Uh... yeah," she gets out.

"Different how?"

Fang swallows. Her throat is bone dry.

"Uh. This is fancier? More complicated."

The prey nods decisively.

"So it isn't just an homage. It's an _ evolution _ . But why, why, why, why," she addresses the table, "Why not just go to them with this? You don't strike me as someone to be ashamed..." she trails off.

And that's it. No _you_ _monster,_ no _ I know what you really are_. Wolford relaxes like a spring uncoiling. Fang remembers to breathe. 

Hopps, completely oblivious, gasps.

"Oh. _ Oh, _I see you now," she steps back, looking at the chair at the head of the table like it holds a long-lost friend. 

"Hello." she breathes.

"I feel like you're telling the stiff more than you're telling us," Wolf complains. Hopps shakes herself and turns to them. Her smile is a little too enthusiastic.

"This isn't a fan, it's a challenger. _ That's _ why he's improved the recipes. It's not a frame job, but it _ is _ a message. To them, all the traditionalist cults out there. All the predators, too. _ Look at me. Look at what I can do. Look at how much better I am, see how your gifts are wasted on you. _He's jealous."

"Jealous of what?"

"Being a predator."

Wolford laughs derisively. Fang has to agree; anyone who's jealous of preds is a whole new level of crazy.

"So he's not a predator?" she asks, "You're saying _ prey _did this?"

Hopps nods solemnly. She's still avoiding Fang's eyes.

"Prey that wants to be a predator. Can you imagine that?" her eyes go far-away, into her own head, "The hunter, stuck in the body of the hunted. The purest form of torture."

Her nose twitches again. This time, it reminds Fang of a shark scenting blood.

"Well, you don't seem to have a problem. Imagining it, I mean."

Hopps' eyes return to the now, and look back down at the floor.

"Oh, feeling what other people refuse to admit to themselves is kinda my thing."

"Wow," Fang pretends to know what the hell she means, "What's that like?"

"Well, it doesn't do my sex life any favours, I'll tell you that," she smiles wryly, "Most rabbit bucks only have one thing on their mind, and once you know that, everything they do is kind of a turn-off.”

(_what the fuck, _ thinks Fang)

Hopps brushes past them, eyes back on the floor, "Well, be seeing you," 

"Wait, you're just dropping that crazy theory on us and running?"

"Pretty much. Bogo just wanted me to sweep the scene and give you some pointers."

"Bogo?" Wolf swears, "wait, are you Captain Bogo's protege? The new girl they keep telling us about down at the morgue?"

Judy laughs.

"I'm definitely not his protege, I'll tell you that."

"Well, what are you then?"

She considers.

"His test case. See'ya around."

And then she's gone. Fang stares after her, blood running cold. The Captain's favourite. And a rabbit, of all things. Fresh from the Academy, by the looks of it. And after what she'd just overheard -

"We'll have to keep an eye on her," Wolf says, by which he means '_ I'll look after you baby girl, don't you worry _,' which actually isn't as annoying as it could be. Fang needs the support.

Of all the stupid things to say at a crime scene -

"A rabbit working with Evil Minds," Wolf shakes his head, very conspicuously changing the subject, "what will they think of next?"

"I know," Fang agrees, glad for the distraction, "Still, you seemed pretty calm about it."

"After a while, you learn to roll with the punches. Still. Helluva left hook. Did you see the way she dismantled that murder? It's like she was there."

"We gonna operate under her theory?"

"If Bogo thinks she's the real deal, I trust his judgement. C'mon, we should be getting back."

Their car is waiting outside. By the time they make it back to the precinct, the sky is the same fathomless blue as Judy Hopps' eyes. Fang shivers, still stuck under the x-ray. 

The rabbit scared her.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is basically the start of a Zootopia Hannibal AU. If you're interested or have any constructive criticism, comments are the best thing in the world.


End file.
